


The Way of Sorrow

by Resoan



Series: Dragon Age Inquisition AU [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: But Before the end of Inquisition, Gen, Post Temple of Mythal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 09:48:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3204767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Resoan/pseuds/Resoan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Abelas-centric. Post Temple of Mythal, but before the finale. As Solas bids him in the temple, Abelas leaves and searches for more of the elvhen, but finds himself heading for Skyhold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Way of Sorrow

**Author's Note:**

> I’d also like to mention that this fic is somewhat AU. Velahari Lavellan is my Inquisitor, but another of her clan, a hunter and rogue Fena’dea, is also part of the Inquisition (basically, they both attended the Conclave, but when the explosion happens, Fena’dea wasn’t physically at the temple - hence her still being alive.) What’s important is that Fena’dea is the one to drink from the Well of Sorrows: not Morrigan, and not Velahari.

The temple of Mythal was gone now: perhaps not physically destroyed, but all that had once been precious and protected was lost to the winds of time. Walking away from such a place, a place he’d dared to call his own sanctuary for the majority of his life had been no small or easy task, but it had done him good to witness another of the elvhen still remained. Perhaps there were places hidden away from probing, shemlen eyes, but Abelas was no tracker: no great adventurer or finder of forgotten ruins, and the longer he journeyed, guided by the wisps of great, elven magics still lingering on the fringes, he became…disheartened.

Serving Mythal in her temple had been a purpose he doubted he would ever find an equal to, and part of him nearly wished he’d died in the temple with his brethren: to die a warrior tested in battle against forces that sought to destroy and corrupt with every step. Mythal would not have stood for it, and Abelas felt shame that he’d allowed it however reluctantly. Such was something he could not change now, however; the shadow of the elves who mistakenly wore vallaslin…she was the link, was she not? She bore the sign of familiar magic, even traveled in company with one of their own, yet Abelas suspected she did not know; it was not, however, his place to reveal the god’s identity. What was surprising was that others were not capable of discerning such a thing for themselves; the magic had called to him, had beckoned like an old friend whose name and face he could scarcely remember from the long years of slumber, but Abelas would never forget such a feeling.

Tarasyl’an telas. A place of great power, the veritable epicenter of activity both for the ancient elves, and now again, it seemed. Understandably, Abelas had never before been to such a place; nestled in the mountains and shrouded by clouds, it was a sight to behold even as he trekked closer, uncertain of why he was drawn to such a place. Magic singed the air, made it lighter somehow, and his own thrummed in response: tickling the ends of his fingertips even as his hand curled into a light fist.

Moving through the vast camps of shems was no difficult matter; most were focused on the swords in their hands or in making japing conversation with others, and Abelas didn’t even bother trying to stave off the distaste he felt at seeing the unworthy in such a hallowed place. Getting past the guards standing stalwart at the gate was another matter, though; these shems were sizable, cloaked in rings and scales of metal that gleamed brightly in the sun. They narrowed their eyes down at him, suspicious and mistrustful, and Abelas’s eyes followed one of the shemlen’s arms as it reached for the hilt of his blade when he refused to be moved and turned away.

“Abelas?” The voice was a familiar one, though he couldn’t put a name to the face; the woman was not the link, but she had been present at the temple of Mythal: another elf, her face laden with the vallaslin of gentle Sylaise. The guards turned in tandem to glance back at the Inquisitor’s companion, innumerable questions hovering in their eyes. “Let him pass, and the next time you care to detain an elf, I suggest you take it up with the Inquisitor first.” Her eyes narrowed at them, angry, though there was already a residual anger there Abelas couldn’t find the source of – this occurrence was nothing of note, after all.

With that, she let out a quiet sigh, a hand lifting to rake back through her brown hair; “Ir abelas. Humans still distrust the elves, even after everything the Inquisitor has done.” It didn’t dawn on her that her apology was his name until she saw the very, very slight uplift of the corner of his lips; she chuckled despite herself and gestured for him to come further, to follow as she led him up a set of stairs in the central courtyard. “So. Why are you here?” She turned to him as she spoke, her eyebrows drawing together curiously; instead of answering right away, however, Abelas remained contemplative and silent, wholly uncertain himself.

Instead of answering, Abelas instead remarked, “You are the one who drank of the vir’abelasan.” The brunette started slightly, lips dipping into a light frown.

“I am. I don’t suppose you’ve come all this way to help sift through all the voices and the memories blending together?” Her tone was outwardly japing, her smile halfhearted, though Abelas could detect the frustration, the desperation: she was trying, truly, but without guidance, how much could she truly glean? She was no ancient: she didn’t have all-time to discern what the voices of the well were attempting to convey to her. It was then Abelas knew, the thought striking him like a thunderbolt; he was here to help her, to help the Inquisitor and this organization, and in so doing, preserve the memories and will of elves thousands of years dead: dead in the service of the great protector Mythal.

“That is exactly why I’m here.” Golden eyes lifted and met deep purple, now filled with wonder and disbelief – and how could he blame her? She scarcely knew anything of him, though that would change now, he supposed. The thought was an uncomfortable one, though when he blinked, her smile had filled her face, and he lost his train of thought rather abruptly.


End file.
